


Come on and try my new parts

by Hermit9



Series: Sprawling Chaos [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Has Issues, Dean Needs to Use His Words, F/M, OFC sex worker, PWP, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Sex Work, Smut, do not try this at home, sex as a coping mechanism, unhealthy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Prequel to “A Needle in a bug”. Cas broke up with Dean. Not that Dean is moving forward with his life. Or acknowledging that fact at all.Can be read as a stand-alone, before, or after the main story.





	Come on and try my new parts

Dean turned the glass in his hand; it wasn’t empty - there was about a swallow of amber liquid sloshing around - but he shouldn’t order a new one and it gave him something to do with his hands. He was staring at nothing, unfocused, letting the noises and music and voices of the White Phoenix wash over him. Human connections as white noise, numbing him. Movement directly across his booth broke the reverie state. Muse settled, leaning back against the padded bench, closing her lips around the ridiculous bendy straw she always had in her drinks. She was studying him.

He watched as the chromatic inserts in her eyes cycled, passing through a kaleidoscope of shades before settling on a deep electric blue. Her hair was undergoing a similar transformation, from strawberry blonde to raven black, somehow getting shorter and spikier. Dean tried not to think too hard about how much hardware and implants went into that. He knew the hairs were optic fibers of some kind. They felt soft to the touch and never tangled.

“You look like hell,” she said.

“Do you use that line on all your clients ?”

“Only when it applies.” She finished her drink, hunting the last of what was probably juice and not alcohol with loud slurps through her straw. “You got anywhere to be ?” she asked, letting her voice drop as low as it would go. It wasn’t raspy enough, but she raised an eyebrow and Dean had to admit it was sufficiently close. He shook his head and she smirked. Muse grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of the booth, and up the stairs to the third floor.

She pulled back on his arm sharply before they reached the landing, making him stumble on the last step. He caught himself on the railing, but before he could recover she pushed against him, hands hard and claiming around his hips and down to squeeze possessively over his crotch. He felt his breath catch, unsure if Muse had always been this strong, or this tall, or if it was just the fear of falling. She nipped at his neck, tracing the length of him over his pants. Christ, he was already hard for her, though he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of panting just yet. She purred and led him up the last step across the threshold of her room. She locked the door behind them.

Muse’s room was functional. The space was taken up by a wide bed, covered in dark red sheets and an abundance of pillows but no comforter, small bedside tables, and a large dresser. Three, large, old-school, woven hampers waited on the side of the door. It looked the same as the previous two times they’d done this, hers and yet clinical.

Dean stopped midway between the door and the bed, uncertain. Muse was being more aggressive and pushy than she had been in their previous runs through this scenario. A part of him was overwhelmingly on board with that. But it also made him nervous.

“Good boy,” she purred behind him. She reached under his shirts and dragged her nails up his flanks, rucking up the fabric as she went. “Go stand by the bed, facing the wall. Arms by your side.”

“Clothes ?” he asked, mouth dry.

“Off. All off.”

Dean peeled off his layers, piling them in the corner between the table and the wall. He made sure his weapons were easy to reach, out of long-ingrained habit. The sound of leather straps being cinched made shivers run up and down his spine. There was trepidation there. A storm of lust, and a thread of regret that he shoved ruthlessly to the back of his mind. Fabric fluttered, long and heavier than anything Muse wore. Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on standing still, legs apart and back straight like a soldier at attention.

The warmth at his back made him flinch. He hadn’t heard her walk and that was concerning in its own right. The thought faded into the background burn of adrenaline as fingers closed around his wrists, firm and strong, holding tightly enough that he could feel the smaller bones move under the pressure. The fingers were gone before it could hurt or bruise. Before Dean could decide if that was a good thing, they were back, higher on his arms, tracing along the muscles and tendons, digging into the skin. Like a butcher deciding where to cut to get the meat, unrelenting, certain that this flesh was owned and free for the taking. Up his forearms, elbows, biceps, and pressing just shy of true pain at the shoulder joint and near the neck. Dean whimpered when the pressure went away.

“Ssshh,” Muse hissed, wrapping her arms around him. Her fingers starting their dissection again on the front of his torso, around the pectoral muscles and digging into his stomach for the flesh there. Dean shivered, concentrating on breathing and standing still, despite the tremors making their way down his legs. Muse draped herself on his back, soft and warm. The flaps of the opened trench coat fluttered, hitting his sides and the rough scratch of fabric was almost more arousing. The strap-on she was wearing was warm, synthetic skin almost indistinguishable from real flesh, hitting against the side of his thighs.

She took each arm and moved them so that his palms rested upon the wall. It made him bend slightly at the waist. Dean shivered, he felt exposed and vulnerable like this. On display. Muse squeezed at his wrists again, then she was gone. Dean kept his eyes closed, trying to hear what she was doing over the beating of his heart. The drawer of the bedside table beside him closed with a raspy sound. There was a flutter of fabric and hands on him again, lower, gripping the globes of his ass. He squirmed, earning him a warning tap to his inner thigh and nails digging into the thin skin of the joint. His breath left in a huff, but the pressure was gone and the fingers were resuming their assessment, down his legs, squeezing the muscles of the calves and tracing the sensitive tendons at the back of the heels. The touch wasn’t cruel or harsh, but not quite hitting the right spots or the right pressure. He frowned and pushed the thought away, grounding himself in his body, or attempting to.

The finger completed their mapping, claiming his ass again, squeezing, and spread him open. There was lube, body warm and circling his hole, the touch almost too gentle now. The flaps of the coat were back around him and there was a weight against his back. Dean felt himself relax, some of the fear leaving. It was ok, he could let go. Cas had him.

He relaxed as best he could, arms stretched and holding his weight off the wall. He loved being able to let go, to have someone else calling the shots. Being the fearless leader, the perfect son, was exhausting. Cas never expected any of that from him. He would strip the defenses from him, like now, long fingers teasing around sensitive skin, slippery and unrelenting. His other hands running up and down Dean’s side, soothing. He wasn’t trying to get him off, not yet, just making Dean soft and panting and desperate. He was good at it, brushing up against Dean’s prostate in unpredictable patterns, sending shocky bursts of addicting pleasure through him. He was unrelenting and thorough.

Dean had no idea how long he’d been leaning against that wall, most upper brain functions being blood deprived. The fingers were gone and a hand was pushing against his shoulder, another pulling at his hip to turn him towards the bed. He must have missed the request to move, and his pleasure buzzed brain helpfully replayed it. Cas had asked him to get on the bed, on his knees. Cas’ voice was by his ear, a low rumble that only resembled words in the way thunder resembles music.

There should have been bites along his neck to go with the command, but as Dean stretched there was no lingering soreness. It sank like a leaded weight somewhere between his lungs, Cas loved his neck and the shell of his ear, why wasn’t he going for it ? Was this some twisted version of giving him the cold shoulder ? Or maybe Cas was holding onto his self-control, so he was denying himself ? Dean liked the implication of that last thought better so he clung to it, crawling on the bed on his on his hands and knees. A tightening hold on his hips stopped him before he got too far and Dean settled on his elbows, keeping his back arched slightly. He knew it made his ass look spectacular. He was rewarded by a firm kneading grab. Dean frowned as pillows got shoved between the bed and his chest. Those were new. Cas usually delighted in fucking him until Dean collapsed face-first into the mattress. Whatever, dude was in a strange mood.

The disquiet flew out of his mind as he felt the rock hard, definitely interested length of Cas’ cock rubbing against the cleft of his ass. He was slick with the lube and so close to where Dean wanted him. A needy whimper escaped him, cutting off into a groan as Cas finally, finally, breached him. Cas kept the movement of his hips to small jolts, giving Dean time to adjust. The hand holding his shoulder smelled of disinfectant and artificial lemon. Dean sneezed at the scent and turned his head the other way, making Cas chuckle. There was a pause as Cas reached as deep as he could go. The tightening of the grip on his shoulder and hip were the only warnings before Cas started fucking him in earnest. It was a steady rhythm that left Dean panting, gasping every other thrust as Cas hit his prostate.

Dean gripped the fabric of the sheets by the fistful, holding on against the force of the onslaught. He arched and pushed back against Cas’ cock. He wasn’t chasing his orgasm, not really. He had come from nothing but Cas’ cock, but it was rare. This was more about proving how much he wanted it, could take it, deserved it. Deserved to be wanted, desired and used. Even with everything they’d been fighting about, through the heavy silences, the sighs, the screaming matches, Dean was still worth keeping around.

He lost his rhythm on the next thrust, jostling the pillows. The fabric was some polymer blend, smooth and artificial, but the new angle was running counter to the weave. It felt harsh and irritating against his chest, grating against his nipples. Cas was being too silent all of a sudden, had he even made a proper noise since they started ? He should have been bent over Dean’s back by now, blanketing him. The silence grew in Dean’s ear like an annoying buzz. There was the sound of breathing and the fleshy wet sounds of being fucked but no moans or half whispered encouragements. Dean blinked his eyes open, confused by the dark red sheets he was holding, it wasn’t the color of any he owned. He lifted his head and stared, puzzled at the objects by the door, medium brown and woven. Reality crashed around him, the fantasy collapsing like a sharp-edged bubble, thousands of tiny shards shredding at him. Cas wasn’t talking because he wasn’t here. This was Muse’s room, and Muse was the one behind him. Cas didn’t want anything to do with him anymore, even as a willing hole to fuck. The realisation shook through him, up his back and out of his aching lungs as a gasping sob.

Muse was good at her job and she tried to move away as the first tears punched their way out of Dean, pleasure moans morphing into hitching gasps. He hadn’t cried this freely, this deeply, since he was a kid and Sammy had run away on his watch and he’d thought his brother dead. Dean reached blindly behind him, catching the flaps of the trench coat he’d told Cas was lost or stolen, or otherwise definitely not at his house.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, honey, I won’t,” Muse answered, softly, her voice soft and gentle and in her natural range. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

Dean nodded weakly, words too far from him now. He let go of the coat and allowed Muse to reposition them until they were both lying on the bed, with Dean as the little spoon. She held him close and crooned songs in languages he didn’t know, carding her hands through his hair. She was soft and warm and real, anchoring him against the onslaught of emotions. He hated feeling this way, helpless and childlike. Rejected. Unwanted. Unworthy.

The tears stopped, dried out. Dean found himself shivering, still gasping and sobbing, with the occasional high pitched whine. Muse sang to him until that too calmed and went away. Her hands were nice, holding him close around his stomach and twisted in his hair. Muse ran her hand lower, teasing the pubes above his cock. He’d lost his erection somewhere along the way of being rendered a blubbering mess. Muse shifted, reminding him that the strap-on dildo did not suffer any such issues with performance.

“Did you still want to get off ?” she asked. “You’ve still got time, I don’t mind either way.”

“I… yeah. I think I do,” he answered. “Please ?”

“Sure thing, honey.”

She kept her movements slow and soft, coaxing his cock back to attention and rocking against him gently, barely moving at all. Dean let himself follow her lead, it wasn’t long before he was truly aroused again. Muse was very good at her job. His orgasm washed over him gently, like a wave hitting a sandy beach rather than a freight train. He was ok with that. Muse worked him through the aftermath then disentangled herself. There was the sound of a shower running, behind him, from the small en-suite. Dean stayed on the bed, curled on his side. He felt lighter, empty and spent if not sated.

The water shut off and the bed dipped with Muse’s return. She wiped him down with a warm towel, using a second, softer, one to wipe at his face. He grasped her hands and kissed the back of her knuckles.

“Sorry about the… the mess.”

“It’s ok.” Mused hopped off the bed and over to the hampers. “Fucking someone through tears isn’t the weirdest request in my week. Doesn’t even require special requests from housekeeping.” She threw the trench coat into the first bin and the strap-on harness and dildo into the second. Dean sat up and ruffled his hair, watching idly as she set up shop by the dresser, screens blinking to life to the right of it and a large one picking up a camera feed from somewhere in the wall acting as a mirror. Muse usually kicked him out of the room before getting ready for her next client. How pathetic did he look that she couldn’t be bothered now ?

Muse’s hair had grown to her lower back, a brassy red color now, and she was plaiting it into two braids. She caught him watching and met his eye in the mirror screen. “You know I’m happy to take your money, honey. You don’t have to tell me what this was about.” She dropped her eyes, focusing on her make-up. There was overly present blush on her cheeks and she had done something to make her skin pale. She looked innocent and doll-like.

“Do you have a look for each John that walks in ?”

“Only for regulars. I’m a play-thing, a fantasy. I wear the mask they want. I can be what they want me to be.” She turned to face him, slipping on a light flowery printed dress. “But I can’t be who they need me to be, in the end. Can you please strip the bed ?”

Dean got up and tossed the soiled sheets in the last hamper. He pulled his clothes back on, slower then he had stripped them off. “I’ll see you around, Muse.”

“I’ll be here, honey.”

He unlocked the door and almost walked into Joaquin. The custodian yelped and looked over Dean’s shoulder for a signal from Muse. Dean stepped out of his way, watching for a moment as Joaquin stretched rubber sheets over the bed and swapped the laundry bins for new ones, clear plastic ones this time.

“Come on man, time’s up. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Dean snickered and followed him towards the stairs. “That’s an old song, even by my standard.”

“Yeah, my dad used to sing it to me.” Joaquin looked back at Dean. “She worries about you, you know ?”

“What makes you say that ?”

Joaquin rolled his eyes. “She only gives extra time to the ones she worries about.”

“Yeah, whatever man,” Dean ran a hand over his face and started down the stairs. It was getting late, he had to get home. He didn’t want to worry Sammy.


End file.
